Aching
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: The Turners as a married couple, late one night. Oneshot, definite M.


She likes it when they are lying together, their bedside light only just extinguished, and he turns to her, face on, reaching out to softly take hold of her hips. She hasn't quite worked out how to ask for this herself yet, but he always seems to know when she wants to; almost as if their proximity helps him read what she's thinking. She's almost certain of it, and feels something of a thrill flicker through her veins as she leans in to him, smiling softly back at him in the near darkness. She waits a moment and then lets her lips meet his.

"It's alright," she whispers, knowing that, still, he always wordlessly asks permission before going any further, "Go on."

He kisses her back so softly, one hand on her hip, the other in her hair, holding her like she's the most precious thing in the world. Perhaps she _is_ the most precious thing in his world. It's more than probable that she is, if the way he's murmuring her name is anything to go by; caressing the sound against his lips so it slips softly into her ear, making her shiver, like it's a prayer.

"Shelagh. Shelagh."

Their arms are around each other; holding on tightly, kissing fiercely. They are getting quite well-practised at this by now, though the delicious novelty has not worn off- she wonders vaguely if it'll ever wear off, because at the moment that seems unimaginable. They have not done this all week, and it seems like a year- they were waiting for tonight, while Timothy's staying over at Granny Turner's.

He runs his hand down over her arms, as tenderly as the first time they held hands, as passionately as that first kiss on the palm of her hand. She loves her husband's raw humanity, the candidness with which he makes love to her. The roughness of the skin on his hands, that have healed so many people- her being one of them, but hasn't he healed her in such a different way to the rest?- that are so much connected with life. He makes her understand how two humans can possibly belong to one another. All the while they do not say a word to one another- as he caresses both of her hips again, flicks one hand up to cup her breast through her nightgown- but they are not unused to silences, and this is not the horrible, halting, imposed silence that they forced upon themselves, but a silence broken by touches and no need for words.

He gathers the fabric of her nightdress up and she feels his hand brush against the inside of her leg. It always makes her shiver, it never fails. The feeling of his skin on hers, growing more intimate with every inch he travels. She aches for him already, she aches for what she knows is coming. She hold his face steadily between her hands, meeting his eyes squarely as her breath shudders raggedly with the movement of his thumb, back and forth, across the skin between her thighs. She thinks how naïve she was as a nun, to think that this, what they were doing, these feelings, could be explained away by science. Now she doesn't even think they can be explained. Except by reference to the most, the greatest, divine love...

"Darling, kiss me," she tells him quietly, breathlessly, "Patrick, darling. Kiss me."

He obliges her willingly, pressing his lips to hers, kissing her openly and passionately. How can life exist without this?- she wonders. How is possible to forgo these feelings- this beautiful, aching longing; this touching and belonging? She tried, and she couldn't. She couldn't have even tried if she'd known that this-...

She groans audibly as he slips a finger inside her, gasping her mouth away from his. Her nightdress is gathered up around her waist, the bedclothes are thrown back and he is lying between her legs, his hand caressing her, his head leaning down finally to rest on the curve of her hip.

"Are you alright?" he asks her.

"Yes," she replies, "How could I not be?"

He sinks another finger into her and she groans again, rolling her hips upwards in pleasure. Turing his lips to her, he kisses the skin of her hip, once, twice, moving his fingers gently within her. She allows him to tease her for a while, but then, finally, it slips from her mouth;

"Darling, I want you."

He stops still for a moment.

"Darling," she tells him again, "Please. Make love to me. Take your pyjamas off. I want you to."

"Shelagh," he murmurs, kissing the skin of her thigh once, then withdrawing; removing his pyjama shirt.

She watches him, somehow feeling both contented and impatient. She knows her own eyes are wide, bright, full of desire and she is thrilled to find the same look in his when he looks up again, having shed his shirt. Her request has made her feel bold, and she reaches her hand out, slipping it under the waist of his trousers, touching him, feeling him ready. Their bodies are so close and she bows her head forward once, kissing his chest, and then straightens up again, smiling, looking him in the eyes.

"Shelagh," he whispers again, "Beautiful, darling. I love you so much."

"Yes," she murmurs in reply, lifting her arms as he draws her nightdress off her, "I love you as well."

He can make her feel so safe, she thinks, holding her naked to his body like this. She had thought that it would be frightening to be exposed like this to anyone, but it only makes her feel safer, warmer, more whole. She never though their relationship would be so much rooted in the physical, and that's not all it's rooted in- not by a long way- but how could she have ever imagined this? He cups her breast, brushing his thumb down over her nipple.

"I've wanted you all week," he told her, "I couldn't stop thinking about you."

"I always want you," she replies, because it's the truth, breathless from him touching her, "I love you so much," and then, looking at him as hard, as deeply as she can, "I can't live without you."

He embraces her so passionately, bringing her flush against his body, holding her tightly.

"Darling, you don't have to. You never have to."

Her heart is hammering, she has never felt more in love than she does in that moment.

"Darling," she tells him, still feeling bold, "Let's make love."

Expecting him to guide her gently back into the pillows, she is surprised when he doesn't move yet.

"Would you mind if we tried something?" he asks her.

"What?" she asks, after a moment, wondering if she still feels quite so bold.

He sees that she is disconcerted, and kisses her gently, letting her know that there isn't anything to be frightened of. Quickly drawing off his own trousers, he lies down on his back beside her.

"Come here," he tells her, and she sees what he means.

Parting her legs, she straddles his waist a little tentatively, but gasps and rolls her hips inadvertently in excitement as the whole of her excitement makes contact with his firm torso. She settles her hands on his shoulders, leaning over him, meeting his eyes again, once they flicker away from her breasts.

"You'll have to help me," she tells him quietly.

"Yes," he replies, taking hold of her hips, guiding her onto him.

She gasps as he fills her, feeling more than ever.

"Oh..." she murmurs quietly, her grip on his shoulders loosening, leaning back, her head falling back. But her hands return to his shoulders a moment later, she needs some leverage, she has to have movement.

Her eyes fall shut for a few moments, lost completely in feeling, finding a new rhythm, but when she opens them again, she finds him watching her intently. She knows she ought to feel self conscious, her breast are visibly bouncing- she must look so wanton, the way she's moving- but she's too desperate for this to care. She needs it, she needs more and more. His hips are pushing up off the bed, into her, meeting her, and she continues to move; her whole concentration on the movement of their bodies, on the point at which their bodies meet, on what he's doing to her and how she loves him.

She breaks first, but he is there to catch her. That's always the way it is.

She wakes up in his arms. She doesn't know how long she's been asleep for. The blankets have been pulled up over their bodies. He is awake, and seems as if he has been awake all the while, holding her.

He kisses the top of her head. Murmuring contentedly, she settles her he snugly in the middle of his chest, her fist resting beside her face.

"I love you so much," tells her quietly, "You're so beautiful. I can't think what I've done to deserve you."

"You're wonderful," she replies quietly, "You're the most wonderful man I've ever met. That's what."

"I feel so lucky."

"I thank God for you every night," she tells him.

"As I do for you."

That takes her a little by surprise and she raises her head a touch to look up at him.

"I didn't know that you believed in God, darling?" she asks perplexed. Living with him has taught her that even when you think you know someone inside out, there is more and there's more and there's more, every day. And, fortunately, it's rare that she doesn't love the things she finds out about him.

"I didn't know I did," he replies, "Until I found myself thanking him from the bottom of my heart for you."

She smiles at him, closes her eyes, her happiness threatening to overcome her completely, and for a few moments she cannot speak.

"I love you," her whisper comes out ragged and strained and achingly heartfelt. How can she still ache for him when he's holding her like this? "I love you more than anything in my life."

"You are my life," he tells her quietly, "You and Timothy; our family. Goodnight, my darling."

**End.**

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